A Game of 10-Sided Dice

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If I were teaching a class on how to write a bestselling paperback, I'd recommend this novel to my students. These are the basics: each chapter must focus on a scene that is highly dramatic and that somehow causes a reversal on the story, creating further problems for the protagonist(s). Obstacles get progressively harder until the climax somewhere towards the end of the novel. Bits of sex here and there. Bits of cruelty towards the protagonists. Good looking villains; grotesque villains. Then an open-ended finale that will make your readers need to buy the next five or six installments of your series.

A Game of Thrones has a huge cast of characters based in a fantasy world somewhat resembling medieval Britain, an island divided by different cultures and loosely held together by a king. It's a little difficult at times to remember who is who: is Varys the eunuch, or is that Verys? And is Ser Loran the Knight of Flowers, or is that Ser Leran? It's a land very similar to a thousand fantasy novels written before or since, with a handy map on the first page and an adherence to certain rules of the genre. The one way it differs from other fantasy novels is its focus on intrigue and human relationships, and the near absence of magic and fantastical creatures.

The first 1/3 of the novel were disappointing. The language was a bit undercooked, clichéd. It wasn't clear whether Martin was aiming for anyone other than 14-year-old boys. The story then picked up speed and some of the more interesting characters, like the dwarf Tyrion, took centre stage. The Seven Kingdoms, with its incestuous rulers, pre-teen brides and buckets of gore suddenly became a darker, harder place to resist.

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Don't Cry for Me London

Mile End Snooze, a photo by olliefern on Flickr.

This walk through Victoria and Mile End Parks brought us to a shaded bench facing a small water feature. Two nearby men lie in the sun; one of them sleeps with his head resting on a sofa cushion, a bottle with red squash by his side.

London competes with its own parks: sirens and pigeon coos, cigarette smoke and flower scents, lush trees and apartment blocks, cloudless blue skies and small wind turbines, black coots and boys shouting a game.

After this brief writing exercise we'll buy (veggie) burger buns and antihistamines. We'll celebrate the end of this sunny Easter weekend with popcorn and Game of Thrones' second episode. We'll listen to music and step out onto our balcony like English Evita Perons.

On the way back home, a cyclist is knocked off his bike on Mile End Road. The driver stands by her car redirecting traffic while bystanders make sure he doesn't move his head. An ambulance squeals down the wrong direction. All drivers slow down to take a gooooooood looooooong look. Hoping for a bit of blood on Jesus' ressurection day?

I'm no better: I text neenaw asking if she was the one who sent the ambulance. Nope, she replies, it's not her area and she's off work. (I also forgot, again, that she no longer sends ambulances.)

All pharmacies are closed and I resign myself to only getting my precious antihistamines tomorrow.